


let me steal the ocean from your lungs

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Asshole Geraldus, Attempted Suicide, Diarmuid in Distress, Emotional Abuse, Eventual Smut, M/M, Romance, Sleazebag Raymond, Smut, lace combinations with blue ribbon, playing fast and loose with history, unrequited diarmuid/raymond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Titanic au.I think that sums it up.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's some odd gender stuff here, like....two dudes in an arranged marriage in 1912. Let's not look too closely at facts lol.
> 
> That being said, here are some facts about the RMS Titanic:  
> The RMS Titanic set sail on the 10th of April, 1912.  
> It was 296 meters long, 20 stories high, weighed 46,000 tonnes, had 9 decks, 29 boilers, and 159 furnaces.  
> Capacity was 3,547 people.
> 
> No smut in this chapter....but it's coming.
> 
> (I don't own Titanic or Pilgrimage, I'm just writing for fun. Do not post on other sites)  
> \---------

Diarmuid sucks in a deep breath of salted ocean air as soon as the car door opens. He nearly stumbles out— the ride over had been stifling, cramped together with Raymond and Geraldus for hours, trying to be polite in his too stiff clothing and shiny new shoes. Geraldus makes a quip about Diarmuid being a dancer, and thus should behave with grace at all times, even when exiting a taxi.

He ignores the jab and takes in his first look of the ship that would take him to America— to his father, and his predetermined future.

It’s….a large ship.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t look any bigger than the Mauretania,” Diarmuid turns to Raymond and is greeted with a condescending smile.

“It’s over 100 feet longer than the Mauretania, Diarmuid. Don’t be blasé.”

Diarmuid turns away, pretending to observe the ship to hide how the chastisement burns.

He hears Raymond complain to Geraldus behind him in a low voice, clearly meaning for Diarmuid to hear:

“Your charge is far too difficult to impress, Geraldus.”

“Yes, well, he is a prideful young boy,” Geraldus says, layering on the disapproval.

“I’ve heard people say this ship is unsinkable,” Geraldus continues, breezing past Diarmuid and staring up at the enormous vessel.

“It is,” Raymond says, “God himself couldn’t sink this—what?”

As Raymond is distracted by the taxi driver, Diarmuid cannot help but be irritated by Raymond’s words. Ciaran had raised Diarmuid to be religious and it strikes him as distinctly unwise to say such a thing before boarding a ship to travel across the ocean.

They bypass the health inspection (apparently first class passengers were immune to lice), and walked up the steep ramp to board the ship. It was the ship of dreams to everyone else, but not Diarmuid. He wished, so many times, that Ciaran had not gone to America….that he had stayed in Ireland, with Diarmuid. Then Diarmuid would not be engaged to Raymond Merville, and he would not have to be escorted by Geraldus to make sure his “innocence remains intact” until their marriage. He burns with shame at the thought every time it creeps into his mind— a more and more frequent occurrence as their marriage draws closer.

On the long walk to their rooms, Diarmuid grudgingly admits to himself that the ship is impressive. Everything is meticulous: ornatly carved wood on every surface, shining gold and brass details, glittering stained glass windows and lush carpeted floors. He is already planning on how he can escape Raymond and Geraldus to explore the rest of the ship when they arrive at their rooms and Diarmuid feels a great wave of relief wash over him.

Geraldus is in the room next door and Raymond is across the hall. At least he can hide in his own rooms, away from their prying, disapproving eyes. Diarmuid disappears to his quarters to hang his clothes and place his prized possession on the bedside table: a photo of him and Ciaran taken on a trip to the Irish coast during the summer previous.

He sits on the overstuffed bed and tugs at his tie, trying to get air into his lungs. He hasn’t breathed properly since his marriage to Raymond was arranged. His future— once something he was excited about— is now predetermined and altogether too horrible to consider for any length of time. He stares at the black and white photo and reminds himself why he’s doing this.

\---

His brain was going to leak out of his ears and drip onto the meticulously crocheted lace tablecloth. Or maybe it would just wither up and crumble to ash within his skull.

Sitting at a long lunch table in one of the ship’s many restaurants, listening to men congratulate each other on their marvelous accomplishments, Diarmuid bites his tongue to stop himself from whining.

The ship’s master builder, Mr. Andrews, is saying something about the size of the ship and Diarmuid briefly wonders if he’s so proud of the size of the Titanic because he’s lacking in other areas. He pulls out a cigarette holder and lodges a cigarette into the end, looking for any relief possible.

“Diarmuid, put that out,” Geraldus grates out of the side of his mouth. Diarmuid, in a rare fit of rebellion, blows smoke in his direction. Geraldus’ eyes light up with fury, but he’s distracted as the weight of his cigarette holder changes, and he looks down to see Raymond putting it out into a glittering glass ashtray.

“We’ll have the duck,” Raymond says to the waiter, turning to Diarmuid.

“You like duck. Right, darling?”

Diarmuid’s skin crawls at the pet name and his smile is more of a grimace. He hates duck. He’s vegetarian, Raymond _knows_ that— Diarmuid glances up to find the man siting across from him watching with knowing eyes. Diarmuid blushes and swallows his shame, looking away.

“You gonna cut his food for him too, Raymond,” the man asks, eyes sharp as knives and layered in thick charm. Diarmuid whips his head up to stare. Who was this stranger coming to his rescue? But the man quickly shifts the conversation to a more lighthearted topic, denying Raymond the chance to respond.

Diarmuid needs air now and stands with a hurried “excuse me,” walking as quickly as he can without running to escape the extravagant dining room, with it’s violin strings and carefully modulated conversation. He hurries through the restaurant’s outdoor promenade to the edge of the upper deck, gripping the cold railing and trying to gather his thoughts. He stares out into the never ending water, wind tugging his hair across his face, and tries to remind himself of the times when Ciaran would take him to the coast on weekends— how happy he was, how they would play for hours in the surf and have picnics of cold cucumber sandwiches and lemonade.

Diarmuid becomes aware of eyes on him. When he allows himself to look towards the pulling sensation, he sees a man staring up at him from the lower deck.

Diarmuid automatically looks away out of instinct, but his eyes are drawn back by some magnetic force. The man is sitting on one of the benches, gaze fixed on Diarmuid. He looks rough, with curly dark hair, tanned skin, and a nose that indicates the man’s seen a fight or 12 over his life. He’s broad and tall, but his clothes are well worn and lived in. He’s far away, but Diarmuid is mesmerized— even from this distance his eyes seem to be full of something—

A cold hand grips his bicep hard and he lets out a surprised “ah,” as he’s tugged around. Raymond is enraged, leaning too close into Diarmuid’s personal space. Diarmuid tries to pull out of his grasp, but Raymond’s much taller and stronger than him, and his hand is steel.

“How dare you disrespect me like that,” Raymond hisses at him.

Diarmuid’s throat closes. Raymond is so _angry_ —

“What possessed you to behave that way? You will not embarrass me again—“

Diarmuid twists his arm and manages to step away from Raymond, trying his best not to run as he walks away. He’s terrified Raymond will follow him, but as he walks along the deck, there are no steps behind him. No doubt Raymond doesn’t want to cause a scene by arguing with Diarmuid in public— that would be terrible for his public image.

He loiters around the decks for the next several hours, avoiding anyone he knows and tries to focus on exploring the upper level of the ship. There’s a grand staircase with a vaulted glass ceiling, and branching off from it are endless rooms and amenities. There are multiple gyms, a pool, Turkish baths, ballrooms, restaurants, game rooms, tea rooms—

But the best place is a small library with a wide selection of books and many small nooks where you can sit against a window and read as the ocean passes by. He loses track of time there, lost in fictional stories of other people, until he glances up at the mounted clock above the library door and has to rush back to his rooms to prepare for dinner.

He tries not to be nervous about how Raymond will act around him after Diarmuid disappeared this afternoon. He changes into dinner wear, laces his shoes too tightly, forgoes a tie, and sticks with a plain collared shirt and gloves. He keeps fiddling with his hair— a nervous tick that Geraldus was constantly chastising him for— but the curls will not be tamed. He gives up and hurries to the hallway as Geraldus knocks at his door, calling through the wood that he’s going to make them late.

\---

Raymond is even colder than usual towards him at dinner— ignoring him but still ordering for him (another meat dish, and Diarmuid’s shaking fork dances around the plate, trying to pick out the vegetables to eat around the slab of flesh), and throwing a sharp look at him when the waiter asks if something is wrong with the food.

“No— it was perfect, thank you. I’m just, feeling a bit sea sick, I think,” Diarmuid tries to deflect. The waiter offers to get him some ginger tea, but Diarmuid excuses himself, saying he would like to lay down. No one stops him, so he leaves as gracefully as he can. He gets halfway to the door and remembers he doesn’t have his gloves, but he can’t turn back around— he can’t stand another moment of this.

As soon as he steps out into the night air panic sets in. _He can’t do this._

He finds himself sprinting towards the back of the ship— shoes loud around the wood paneling, but not loud enough to hide his labored breathing as he tries not to cry. The ocean air burns his lungs and he nearly runs into an elderly couple, but he makes it to the back of the ship unscathed, where there are no passengers and he can cry away from prying eyes.

Tears stream down his cheeks and his blurry eyes catch on the white railing. He walks as though possessed to the illuminated metal bar and peers over the side.

The water is black in the night sky, but he can see the moon reflecting off the water as it’s churned up by the ship’s massive propellers. He watches himself move from outside his own body— gripping the railing and climbing over. Glancing up to make sure no one’s watching him, he slowly turns himself so he’s holding onto the bar behind his back, leaning his shoulders out towards the inviting water.

“Don’t do it.”

The voice, low and gravelly, comes from close behind him.

Diarmuid’s heart leaps but his feet remain planted.

He looks over his shoulder— it’s the man who was staring up at him from the lower deck. He’s standing a good distance back, broad hand outstretched.

“Stay back! Don’t come any closer,” Diarmuid demands, the cold of the bar biting into his hands. He can feel tears tracking down his cheeks, hot in the night air.

But the man steps closer, hand imploring.

“No! Don’t. I’ll jump,” Diarmuid tries, and the man freezes.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and holds his hands up in placation, stepping closer to the railing and dropping it over the edge. Diarmuid watches the glow of it disappear into the black below. The man doesn’t move back though, just glances over the side of the ship, then back to Diarmuid.

Fed up with the man’s staring, Diarmuid snaps:

“Go away! Leave me alone,” he tries to snarl, but his voice is too high, obviously distressed, and he curses his inability to control himself. _Well, that will all end now, if only this stranger would—_

“Can’t leave now,” the stranger mumbles. Then, to Diarmuid’s shock, he reaches up and starts to take off his heavy, weathered coat. He tosses it onto a bench, and kneels, reaching for the laces of his thick boots.

“What are you doing,” Diarmuid can’t help but ask.

“I’m gonna have to jump after you,” the stranger’s voice is oddly calming, and his accent is definitely American— rough around the edges like the new Yorkers he’d heard shouting at each other all over the ship (even in the first class restaurants). The stranger tugs his boots off, plopping them down on the deck.

“You ever been in the ocean at night,” he asks. Diarmuid, completely baffled, shakes his head.

“The cold makes your bones burn. And you can’t breathe. ”

He stays where he is and Diarmuid glares at him.

“Get me off the hook,” he asks, holding his hand out again.

“You’re crazy,” Diarmuid mumbles, looking back out into the endless darkness.

“With all due respect, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship,” the warm voice says, not unkindly, just loud enough for Diarmuid to hear over the rumble of waves and machinery beneath him. Diarmuid’s voice leaves him, and he feels the gentle brush of fabric against his arm and the man’s broad hand comes into view in his periphery.

“Come on,” he says.

Diarmuid finds himself reaching over, and their hands touch. The stranger’s hand instantly warms diarmuid’s frozen fingers, his palm wide, engulfing, and _careful_.

Diarmuid turns himself around so he’s facing the stranger, and when their eyes meet Diarmuid’s breath is stolen for a completely different reason.

Now that he’s close, the stranger is gorgeous, and while Diarmuid thought his eyes were captivating from far away, up close Diarmuid is lost in them

“David Castle,” the man says, warm and with a hint of shyness.

“Diarmuid Muldowney,” Diarmuid offers, entranced when David smiles in response, relief clear on his face.

“Come on—“ he says.

Diarmuid puts a foot up onto the railing, and his shiny new shoes slip on the condensation—suddenly the world tilts and he drops, stomach plummeting and he yells out instinctively. David’s chest slams into the railing as Diarmuid’s body drops, but his grip has turned to iron around Diarmuid’s wrist. Diarmuid’s feet dangle in the empty air and his heart is in his throat, terror crushing his windpipe. Suddenly he does not want to die, not at all—

“I have you,” David says, pulling Dairmuid up. Diarmuid flails his other arm, reaching, and as David lifts him he manages to get numb fingers around the railing. David reaches over with his other arm around Diarmuid’s back, pulling him over the railing to the safety of the deck.

They collapse, David leaning over him as Diarmuid lays on his back, sucking air into his lungs and shaking in terror, adrenaline pounding hot through his veins.

He’s distantly aware of boots hurrying in their direction. There’s yelling from someone as David stands up and steps away. He can’t track what’s happening, but someone drops a warm blanket around his shoulders.

When he finally comes back to himself, the Master at Arms has shown up is putting David in handcuffs, a Colonel is holding a flute of champagne out for Diarmuid, trying to get him to drink it and “warm his insides,” and Raymond is trying to intimidate David, snarling at him.

“How dare you put your filthy paws on _my_ fiancé?”

“No—“ Diarmuid tries, standing on shaky legs.

“You dare try to possess what is mine—“ Raymond continues, ignoring Diarmuid’s protest.

Diarmuid clutches the blanket around his shoulders and weaves his way over, nudging Raymond with a hand.

“It was an accident, Raymond,” Diarmuid tries in his most innocent voice.

“An accident,” Raymond sharp eyes dig into Diarmuid and Diarmuid gives him a tight smile.

“I was just looking over the edge. I…wanted to see the propellers, you know? And I slipped.”

David is staring at Diarmuid over Raymond’s shoulder, mind turning behind his silent eyes.

“You wanted to see the propellers,” Raymond echoes, lip curling. Diarmuid pushes through the leap of fear at Raymond’s overt displeasure.

“Yes— and I would have fallen if Mr. Castle here had not caught me,” he looks to David, urging him silently to go along with the story.

“Was that the way of it,” the Master at Arms demands, and David nods.

“Yes. That’s what happened,” he says.

“Well, this man’s a hero then,” the Colonel blusters, “uncuff the man. Good for you, Mr. Castle.”

Relief and the adrenaline crash hit Diarmuid all at once and he sags on his feet, feeling dizzy and sick. Raymond moves to herd Diarmuid away from the scene, but the Colonel interrupts.

“Mr. Merville, surely the man deserves some kind of reward…”

Raymond hides his displeasure poorly, but turns to David with a pasted on smile.

“Perhaps you would join us for an evening meal tomorrow, Mr. Castle? You could regale us with the tale of how you saved my clumsy fiancé. “

The barb hits home and Diarmuid finds he isn't too exhausted to be irritated with Raymond. David shoots a lightning quick glance at Diarmuid before responding in the affirmative, looking uncomfortable and out of his depth.

“A man of few words, I see. Very well. Good evening,” Raymond sneers, turning and marching Diarmuid away.

Diarmuid casts one last look over his shoulder at David, with his ruffled hair and untied boots, and silently acknowledges to himself that he felt safer with David tonight than he ever has with Raymond.


	2. an opulent collar or a scrap of paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid deals with the aftermath of his actions and gets a bit closer to the stranger who saved his life.
> 
> There's quite a bit of Sleazebag Raymond in this chapter...be warned!
> 
> And a bit of info pulled straight from the RMS Titanic wikipedia article:
> 
> “B Deck, the Bridge Deck, was the top weight-bearing deck and the uppermost level of the hull. More First Class passenger accommodations were located here with six palatial staterooms (cabins) featuring their own private promenades. On Titanic, the À La Carte Restaurant and the Café Parisien provided luxury dining facilities to First Class passengers. Both were run by subcontracted chefs and their staff; all were lost in the disaster. The Second Class smoking room and entrance hall were both located on this deck. “  
> \---------

Sitting at the lavish mahogany vanity in his room, Diarmuid feels numb. He doesn’t recognize the ghost in the mirror, looking back at him with blatant terror. When did he become this person? Submissive, meek, and terrified to speak his mind. This isn’t who he is.

Diarmuid has changed into his sleepwear— lace combinations he bought for himself in a fit of desire for something soft and pretty. It’s lacy and frilly and completely ridiculous, but he can’t convince himself to regret the purchase; he’ll take any measure of comfort he can find at this point.

Now that the adrenaline crash has settled in, he’s absolutely horrified with himself. What would his father have done if Diarmuid had gone through with it?

He shivers out a breath and grips his comb, tense fingers bringing it up to run through his sea air tangled curls.

He must be stronger, for Ciaran if nothing else. There’s a knock at the door, and before he can stand the lock clicks open from the outside and Diarmuid feels blood leave his face—

It’s Raymond. How did he get a key? It’s completely inappropriate for Raymond to be in a room alone with him, and when he’s in his _undergarments_ —

The social violation is lost on Raymond as he leans against the doorframe, bow tie hanging loose on his neck and a thin wooden box held in his hand.

“I know things have been difficult,” Raymond whispers, “and many things are changing in your life. I don’t know why you are sad, and I don’t pretend to understand. But I have something that may lift your spirits.”

He slips into the room, closing the door behind him and effectively trapping Diarmuid in with him. Not that he could go anywhere if he wanted to—he’s completely frozen to his chair. There’s no where to go, he has nothing to cover himself with—

In the mirror, Diarmuid watches a mortified flush crawl up his chest as Raymond sits, fully clothed, on top of the vanity and looks down at Diarmuid. His eyes dip to where the lace meets Diarmuid’s bare chest, nostrils flaring. Diarmuid’s excruciatingly aware of his bare arms and naked legs. He tugs the lace in vain to try and cover his knees, but that just pulls the top down more—

Raymond smiles and continues: “I was intending to give this to you during our engagement party when we reach America, but—“

Diarmuid nearly chokes on air. In the box is a necklace: a garish string of thick white diamonds framing a giant, indigo, heart shaped—

“Diamond,” Raymond says. He pulls the necklace from it’s velvet bed and stands behind Diarmuid, wrapping it around his neck and latching it. The cold weight of it burns Diarmuid’s skin and hangs heavy on his chest.

“56 Karats,” Raymond brags from behind Diarmuid’s shoulder, scrutinizing the sparkling gems in the mirror.

It’s a collar. The heaviest, most extravagant collar Raymond could purchase. Diarmuid struggles to keep his face blank, reaching a hand up to touch the monstrosity resting against his sternum.

“It is called Le Coeur de la Mer. The—“

“Heart of the Ocean,” Diarmuid finishes.

“Precisely,” Raymond says into his ear. Diarmuid shivers at the feeling of Raymond’s hot breath against his skin. His heart is thundering and he’s certain Raymond must be able to see his pulse drumming along his neck. Raymond comes to his side and kneels next to him.

“I will deny you nothing, if only you will not deny me,” he whispers, and Diarmuid looks at Raymond’s reflection through the mirror to avoid meeting his gaze.

He can’t focus. How is he supposed to respond? Raymond is in Diarmuid’s room, unescorted, when Diarmuid is… _undressed_. And giving him this gift (“ _staking his claim,"_ Diarmuid’s mind screams at him), and talking about….what is he talking about?

Large fingers touch his chin and he flinches, turning to find Raymond much, much too close and _oh no_ , he’s—

Raymond tilts his head and presses his lips to Diarmuid’s. It’s goes on for far too long, Raymond’s lips pressed to his, dry and hot, and he leans back to look into Diarmuid’s eyes with blown pupils. Diarmuid’s shock must be plain, because Raymond leans away and smiles.

“I can see that I’m overwhelming you,” Raymond says, smug, though his voice is lower than before and sends a shock of fear through Diarmuid’s guts. He stands and looms over Diarmuid, fingers coming up to his chin again.

“I don’t mean to. I just want you to know that I will take care of you if only you will let me.”

He glances down at Diarmuid’s bare knees and Diarmuid tugs at the lace again. Raymond smiles, fingers pinching into his chin, “you look very nice in those. I will look forward to taking them off of you on our wedding night.”

His hand drops to touch the huge diamond hanging from Diarmuid’s neck, fingers feathering against the skin of Diarmuid’s chest as he strokes along the band. Diarmuid refuses to flinch away, but as soon as Raymond closes the door behind him he gasps in a breath and wipes at his mouth as though that could wipe away the feeling of Raymond’s thin lips against his.

Even a long, steaming bath does not quell the feeling of violation. Raymond has kissed him before, but always on the hand or cheek, as was proper for an engaged couple.

Diarmuid hides his face in his hands and submerges himself under the bubbles, screaming into the muffling water.

\---

He can’t stop thinking about the stranger he met last night, spoon fiddling with the oatmeal and fresh berries in front of him. Even the warm, bright morning light and the beautiful climbing plants in the Cafe Parisien promenade cannot lift his mood. He eyes the cubes of brown sugar, sitting in their gilt mother of pearl container in the center of the table. Geraldus always chastises him for adding brown sugar to his oatmeal, so he reaches forward quickly and adds _two_ cubes just because Geraldus isn’t here to tell him “no.”

Last night feels like a nightmare waiting to invade his thoughts at any second, and even being surrounded by other people at the breakfast table cannot make the anxiety recede. But he keeps latching onto the memory of the stranger.

David Castle. He had saved Diarmuid’s life, and his eyes were full of a warm light that Diarmuid has never encountered before.

 _And_ , Diarmuid thinks, _he was_ _handsome_. The thought makes Diarmuid squirm and look around, as though people could read the thought plastered across his face.

He should really thank David. He should thank him _in person_. Suddenly food seemed much more interesting and he finished his oatmeal in several quick bites before stepping out onto the deck to search for the stranger.

It doesn’t take long for Diarmuid to find him. While most of the passengers are hurrying to and fro, laughing and talking and playing; David is still and calm, leaning against a railing and watching the water pass.

David must sense his presence because he turns when Diarmuid draws near. Diarmuid freezes stupidly, but David removes his hat, like a gentleman, and smiles at him.

Where Raymond is sharp, David is broad. Square jawed and heavy browed, he would be intimidating if not for his soft full lips and the long dark lashes framing his brown eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Muldowney,” he says after Diarmuid remains silent for too long to be socially acceptable.

“Diarmuid, please,” Diarmuid fumbles, “Good morning, Mr. Castle. I hope you slept well.”

Diarmuid’s fingers suddenly start twisting in his gloves _(“Stop fiddling,” Geraldus’ voice whispers in his head, “that’s a ridiculous nervous habit.”_ ). He pulls his hands into fists and anchors them at his side, feeling twitchy and self-conscious.

“Call me David, please,” David says. He puts an arm out, inviting Diarmuid to walk beside him.

As they fall into step, Diarmuid swallows his anxiety.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did last night.”

David shoots him a surprised look.

“I mean— for stopping me, but also for…going along with my story. You saved me from getting into a lot of trouble.”

Something about what he says makes a shadow pass in David’s eyes, and Diarmuid does not like the look one bit.

“I just mean there would have been a lot of questions and people would have been disappointed in me and…”

David looks worried now, and Diarmuid hurries to prevaricate.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump all of this on you, I really just wanted to say ‘thank you,’” Diarmuid hurries to explain, wanting the furrow in David’s brow to smooth out.

“You’re welcome,” David says politely, lips pulling up at the corners, though the worry remains.

“Will you tell me a bit about yourself? I feel like you know too much about me now and I know nothing of you,” Diarmuid asks, wanting to learn more about this strange, handsome man.

They walk along the decks as the sun passes overhead and David tells him about his life in a quiet, soft voice. It’s clear he doesn’t speak much, but he’s trying for Diarmuid, and the thought makes his heart swell and twist.

He learns that David is indeed from New York, though he spent the past three years in France working as a carpenter. He’s heading back to New York for a commissioned job. He has no family (Diarmuid’s heart hurts at David’s hushed words). He has a high school education. He speaks English and French. He has a lovely voice; deep and gravelly, masculine and intimate. As the conversation flows easily between them, Diarmuid finds himself laughing and smiling so much that his cheeks hurt and he loses track of time.

“Diarmuid,” David says his name, and Diarmuid is tempted to pretend he didn’t hear so that David would have to say it again. Instead he hums his acknowledgment and looks up into David’s eyes, watching the wind fluff through David’s curls. Diarmuid’s fingers twitch with the desire to comb through his hair.

“What happened to make you think you had no way out?”

Diarmuid’s smile drops and he turns, heading to the side of the deck to grip one of the long rope ties.

“It’s everything,” he confesses. If anyone deserves to know, it’s the man who literally pulled him back from the brink.

“It’s…my life has been decided for me. It’s all planned out and scheduled and I have no say in anything.”

He holds up his hand so David can see the huge ring that weighs his hand down every day.

“You would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean,” David says with wide eyes, and for some reason it makes Diarmuid laugh.

“Yes. I do feel as though I’m sinking more with every passing day.”

There’s a pause, and Diarmuid can tell David is preparing to say something.

“Do you love him?” 

Diarmuid’s heart slams against his ribcage at David’s question.

“What?”

David just watches him with that infuriating patience.

“You” Diarmuid’s voice catches in his throat, “you can’t ask me that.”

David tilts his head like he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“I—“ Diarmuid turns and looks out into the ocean. Of course he didn’t love Raymond. What an absurd thought. People don’t marry for love anyway— it’s all politics!

“That’s a very rude thing to ask,” Diarmuid tries.

“Is it,” David asks.

“Yes!”

“Why?”

Diarmuid gapes at him.

“I don’t have to answer that!”

He knows that David can see the truth written plain on his face. This has all gone wrong and now he’s embarrassing himself again in front of this stranger, who doesn’t owe him anything—

Diarmuid turns to walk away—

“You would not have jumped,” David says.

Diarmuid spins around.

David looks so certain: like he can see into Diarmuid’s soul, down to the heart of him. He keeps looking.

\---

Diarmuid spends more time that he normally would preparing for dinner, lying to himself and saying it has nothing to do with David. When he finally manages to stop staring in the mirror and picking apart his every flaw, he hurries down to the restaurant, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees David standing at the base of the Grand Staircase.

He’s wearing a very well made suit and very shiny shoes that cannot possibly be his own. His hair is combed back into waves, and as Diarmuid gets closer, his suspicion that David has shaved since this afternoon is confirmed by the freshly smooth skin of his jaw. When Diarmuid reaches him, David takes his gloved hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the back of Diarmuid’s glove. He breathes deeply at the feeling of David’s heat through the light fabric covering his hand.

David holds out his arm and Diarmuid slides his fingers up to rest against the crook of his elbow, willing away a blush at the intimate gesture.

“Your friend Rua leant me the suit,” David explains, confirming Diarmuid’s suspicion, “he saw us walking on the deck earlier and suggested that I should look the part for dinner.”

Diarmuid makes a mental note to thank Rua later. Rua Walsh was the man who had come to his defense at lunch when Raymond ordered duck for him. In the few conversations Diarmuid had had with Rua, he surmised very quickly that Rua was sharp as a tack and kind to boot.

“You look nice,” Diarmuid mumbles, certain that he’s blushing, but when their eyes meet David smiles back.

“You look beautiful.”

A simple statement, but it makes all the difference in the world. Diarmuid’s anxiety melts away and he finds himself feeling giddy, walking through the A la Carte Restaurant on David’s arm.

Dinner is a stuffy affair— how could it be anything else in an exclusively First Class restaurant decorated in the Louis XVI style? But Diarmuid takes great pleasure in pointing out all the different people in First Class— their occupations, the latest gossip— and David smiles and listens, adding in a smart quip here and there.

And David fit in beautifully. In the perfectly pressed suit and tie, he looks regal— tall and mysterious. Many interested eyes sneak glances at them throughout dinner, and Diarmuid is pleased to be the person by David’s side.

Diarmuid should have known that he could trust Geraldus to ruin the illusion.

“Mr. Castle is joining us tonight from the third class,” Geraldus sneers behind his glass, looking around at their crowded table to see everyone’s reactions. There are a lot of very wealthy people here, but Diarmuid is pleased to see most of them nod politely or just look interested.

“Yes, he helped out in a spot of trouble with my clumsy fiancé,” Raymond adds, looking towards Diarmuid, “all those dance classes and he still manages to nearly fall off the world’s largest ship.”

Diarmuid has no words to respond, so he takes a hasty drink of his water with an embarrassed glance at David to see his reaction. David looks supremely unimpressed, and Diarmuid desperately tries to think of a way to diffuse the situation before—

“How are the accommodations in third class, Mr. Castle?”

There’s a heavy clink of glass across the table and Diarmuid looks up to find Rua glaring blatant disapproval in Geraldus’ direction, hand clenched on his glass as though resisting the temptation to throw it.

“The best I’ve seen,” David says, not backing down from Geraldus’ taunt, “very few rodents.”

David’s statement earns a chuckle from the table.

“And you’re a carpenter,” Geraldus continues, determined to paint David in a bad light.

“A noble profession,” Rua interjects to general murmurs of approval from the group.

“Tell me, Mr. Castle,” Geraldus continues, “Moving around so much for work— you like doing this? Having a rootless existence?”

Uncomfortable silence descends as they wait for David to respond.

“Yes, sir. Every day is a new opportunity. Life is a gift,” David says, eyes meeting Diarmuid’s, “I don’t intend on wasting it.”

“Hear hear,” Rua agrees, raising his glass in a toast.

Rua takes charge of the conversation, leading it away from dangerous territory with such ease that Diarmuid is tempted to kiss him.

As the meal draws to a close, several of the men stand to retire to the smoking room, but Diarmuid stays behind. Cigar smoke gives him atrocious headaches and consequently provide a fantastic excuse for Diarmuid to avoid the arrogant, self-congratulatory conversations that usually crop up amidst the smoke.

David is invited by a reluctant Raymond, but he refuses politely, and when he moves to dismiss himself he holds Diarmuid’s hand in his and brings it to his lips. Diarmuid’s heart leaps at the feeling of his warm, full lips against the back of his hand, on bare skin this time, and it’s horrible and wonderful because he doesn’t want it to end—

There’s a small scrap of paper hiding between his fingers and pressing into Diarmuid’s palm. Surprised, Diarmuid takes it and hides his hand beneath the table, squeezing the paper tightly in his fist.

David holds his gaze for several seconds, then turns and walks calmly out of the restaurant.

Glancing around carefully to make sure there are no prying eyes, Diarmuid unfolds the small scrap of paper to find David’s hasty writing:

_Life is a gift._

_Meet me at the clock._


	3. pencil sketches and lace combinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're veering way off course now, friends.
> 
> There be smut ahead...

Diarmuid struggles to stay in his seat for several more minutes, aware of Geraldus’ hawkish gaze on him.

His heart pounds in his throat with the thrill of rebellion as he excuses himself after several minutes. While he cites exhaustion, he’s never been less tired. He finds David standing at the Grand Staircase beneath the cherub lined clock. As Diarmuid walks up the steps to him, David smiles with a secret in his eyes.

“Would you like to go dancing?”

\---

 _Third Class is loud,_ Diarmuid thinks as a huge grin splits his face. David has lead him down to the Third Class dining area, where the tables have been pushed aside to make room for a massive late night bash. There’s music that makes Diarmuid’s heart ache for his home in Ireland, beer spilling everywhere— dancing and laughing and squabbling in every corner. It carries nothing of the stuffy tension in First Class, and Diarmuid feels himself relax, knowing his every more isn’t being scrutinized and picked apart.

David snags two full glasses of amber beer and leads them to a free table where they can sit and watch the festivities. Diarmuid would have been perfectly happy to just watch all the fun, but David chugs his beer and stands, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up and holding out a hand for Diarmuid.

“Come dance,” David says, warm eyes sparkling with michief. Diarmuid laughs and stumbles over his words.

“I couldn’t, David—“

“Come on, dance with me,” David says, hand out, waiting for him. Diarmuid _shouldn’t_. Geraldus would be appalled, not to mention what Raymond would think about his fiancé dancing with Third Class men…

Diarmuid comes to a decision and his stomach leaps as he takes David’s hand and is whirled out into the dance floor.

“I don’t know this dance,” Diarmuid fumbles, yelling over the commotion and eyes darting around, trying to figure out the pattern of the dance from those around him

“Neither to I,” David says, and slides his free hand around Diarmuid’s back to press into his spine and pull him close. Diarmuid’s breathing hitches and sweat springs up on his skin. David starts to lead him across the dance floor and Diarmuid finds himself laughing and following, David’s heat intoxicating and the press of his hands overwhelming. Diarmuid’s free hand that’s not tangled with David’s goes to David’s shoulder and he feels a delicious thrill at the strength hidden beneath his shirt.

His stomach feels weird and squirmy, but it’s not at all like the jumpy feeling he gets around Raymond. With Rayomond, his instinct is to freeze in the hopes that he won’t be swallowed by the predator in the room. With David the twisting feeling is pleasant and exciting and he wants _more_ of it. He wants David to swallow him whole. The thought is invigorating, and he leans into David and lets himself be swept along to the music.

\---

After several songs have passed, David leads Diarmuid to grab more drinks and a spare space at a table next to some men arm wrestling for money.

He thinks, privately, that David could easily beat them, and feels a thrill heat his belly. The sound is starting to get to him, and he doesn’t want to leave yet but he does feel the need for some quiet.

“Where is your room,” Diarmuid asks, then immediately realizes how that sounds and tries to backtrack.

“I didn’t mean. I just— I’m curious, is all.”

“I know,” David laughs, ghosting his hand over Diarmuid’s twisting fingers, “I’ll show you, if you like.”

Diarmuid nods in relief.

David leads him down a narrow, plain corridor, so much different from the ornate paneled hallways of the First Class. They pass many festive passengers and some not so festive passengers, twisting and turning through thin corridors, until David stops at a room with the placard “325 E.”

It’s an otrociously small room with 2 bunk beds— about the size of Diarmuid’s bathroom. He feels a swell of shame, but David just smiles and gestures to one of the bottom bunks.

“This one’s yours,” Diarmuid asks, eyes snagging on a dark brown book peaking out from under the flat white pillow.

“What’s this?” He reaches forward and snags the thin book, and when David doesn’t protest he opens it.

It’s full of thick paper and Diarmuid’s feels shock run through him. The book is full of sketches of people— full body drawings, portraits, close details of hands—

“David,” Diarmuid says, shocked, “this….you drew these?”

David shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“You’re an artist,” Diarmuid accuses, thumbing delicately through the drawings, fascinated by the detail, and how the people on the page seem to be alive with emotion.

“I like to draw,” David dismisses.

“These are amazing,” Diarmuid says, sitting on the mattress, completely entranced by the drawings.

Diarmuid turns a page and David makes a sound.

Diarmuid’s jaw drops open. It’s him; rendered in remarkable pencil detail. Diarmuid recognizes the shirt and tie from their walk on the deck. His hair is wind swept, and he’s smiling widely. The eyes are like looking in a mirror. He looks up to find David blushing, and the sight is so intoxicating that Diarmuid slides the book back under the pillow with reverent hands and stands, reaching a hand out to feel the hot skin of David’s cheeks.

Is this really what Diarmuid thinks it is?

“You—“ Diarmuid starts, but a boisterous yelling down the hall makes Diarmuid step away in surprise and two drunken men burst into the room.

“Oh ho,” yells one man, hair askew and cheeks red with drink.

“Well, look who the Mute found,” the second man exclaims, spilling drink on the floor and cackling. David rolls his eyes and leans close to Diarmuid.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he says, hand low on Diarmuid’s back to lead him out of the cramped space.

“Oh hey, don’t let us spoil the fun! Pretty sure O’Connell right here would love a show,” comes a jeer from inside the room.

David grimaces and apologizes for his roommates, but Diarmuid is more curious about one of the men’s remarks.

“Why did they call you ‘the Mute?’”

“I don’t talk much,” David says, running an embarrassed hand through his curls, falling out of place from all the earlier dancing.

“You talk to me,” Diarmuid counters.

“You’re different,” David confesses, eyes warm and confiding.

\---

Diarmuid starts to twist his fingers together as they approach his rooms and his shoulders tense. He wants to ask David about the sketch. He wants David to come into his room and _stay_ , but at the same time he’s nervous—

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says, resorting to politeness, “for the evening.”

David smiles and takes his hand. He thinks David is going to press his lips to the back of his hand again, but instead he waits for Diarmuid’s eyes to meet his.

“May I kiss you,” David asks. It’s such a simple, innocent request that Diarmuid just nods dumbly.

David smiles and slides one hand around Diarmuid’s waist, pulling him close and leaning down, cupping his face with his free hand and pressing his lips to Diarmuid’s with such warm affection that liquid fills Diarmuid’s eyes behind his closed lids. David’s lips are warm and full and careful, brushing against his slowly.

His heart pounds in both agony and bliss, and he wants it to go on forever— but David just presses two, three, four more soft, quick kisses to his lips before pulling back, letting go and stepping away. He clears his throat and Diarmuid swallows hard at the painful arousal lighting up his body. He feels like he’s in a dream, and he’ll wake up to find this all never happened—

“I should,” David starts, glancing down the hall, “I need to leave, or else I won't…”

“I’ll show you around the First Class amenities tomorrow,” Diarmuid suggests.

“It’s only fair, seeing as how I got to see Third Class,” Diarmuid waffles, and while it’s transparent to the point of riduculousness, David nods with sparkling eyes and bids him 'good night.'

\---

Diarmuid steps into his room and leans back against the door. He stares around: taking in the extravagant Regency décor— gilt gold details on every surface, the red stained woods, the plush bed overflowing with embroidered pillows. And the emptiness.

Diarmuid sighed, honing into the ever-present humming sound of the ship’s engines. He slips into the bathroom and, after washing his face with cold water, slips into his combinations and falls onto the bed. His thoughts won’t leave the kiss and he absentmindedly runs his fingers over his lips, shivering at the memory of David’s lips against his—

There’s an abrupt, hurried knock on the door and Diarmuid flinches upright. The clock on the vanity reads 2:30am. Who—?

 _Oh, no._ Ramond must have had someone following him. But as he slides the small gold peephole cover aside he sees—

Tearing the door open, David steps into the space, closing the door with his foot and gripping Diarmuid’s jaw, angling his head to the side and pulling him into a consuming kiss, tongue pressing into Diarmuid’s mouth and making Diarmuid’s knees creak with the effort to hold him up.

“David—“ Diarmuid mumbles into David’s mouth, and David hums, hands going to David’s waist and freezing when he feels the light fabric beneath his hands.

He looks down and Diarmuid would feel embarrassed except he sees up close and personal how David’s pupils expand and his gaze turns hungry. On Raymond it was terrifying, but on David…

David slides his hands up Diarmuid’s waist to thumb across the lace along his chest.

“Bed’s over there,” Diarmuid says, voice whispery with arousal.

David’s eyes snap to his and he growls, the sound making Diarmuid’s hips jolt. Gravity shifts as David picks him up and carries him to the bed. Diarmuid plops down onto the bouncy mattress and looks up, fighting the urge to cover himself.

David’s breathing hard, huge ribcage expanding and contracting sharply, and the wild look in his eyes is deliciously dangerous.

“Okay,” David asks, and when Diarmuid nods frantically David toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, barricading Diarmuid in.

“Shirt,” Diarmuid mumbles, tugging at the back of David’s white shirt, wanting it off, wanting to see David—

David’s shoulders tense, and Diarmuid thinks he’s done something wrong, but David just leans back onto his heels, unbuttoning his shirt. Diarmuid’s breath hitches and David notices, slowing down as he undoes each button. Diarmuid whines and reaches up to help, eliciting a laugh from David.

David pulls the shirt off and throws it aside. He is so strong— muscles shifting and bunching along his chest, but concern crashes down on Diarmuid’s arousal as David shifts and the light catches on his skin. There are thick scars covering David’s torso— deep and wide, aged silver on his tanned skin. It looks like he’s been _tortured_ —

David catches his hands as he reaches towards him and brings his fingers to David’s lips, kissing the slender digits.

“I’m okay, I promise. I’ll tell you about it, sometime, but—“

He pauses, and Diarmuid sees uncertainty start to seep into his eyes and that won’t do at all, so Diarmuid tugs at his hands, pulling him down.

David smiles and gives in, kissing Diarmuid’s jaw and neck, leaving a trail of fiery arousal in the wake of his lips. There’s the hint of stubble starting along his jaw and it scrapes Diarmuid’s skin, and Diarmuid wants more of the pleasure-pain, everywhere, _now_.

David slides away again, but before Diarmuid can complain David glances down at Diarmuid’s very interested groin and places his hands carefully against the exposed skin of Diamuid’s thighs, just below the lace trim of his combinations.

Diarmuid’s breath hitches, and he knows he should stop this…he really should. And David would be a gentleman about it, but…God, he wants this so badly. And he wants this on his terms, not on Raymond’s or Geraldus’, or society’s—

David looks up at his again, lips rubbed red and puffy, and his fingertips tease the edge of the lace.

“Okay,” he asks again, and Diarmuid nods and squirms on the bed, trying to get David’s hands to move.

“Please,” he asks, embarrassed and aroused and struggling to breathe.

David huffs a breath and leans forward to kiss him again, one hand gripping the meat of his thigh and the other sliding the lace trim up; the blue ribbon bows tickling his skin as it’s pushed out of the way. David’s fingers pause at the join of his hip, teasing, rubbing back and forth until Diarmuid whines into David’s mouth, and David quickly shifts his hand, gripping Diarmuid’s erection.

He gasps at the heat of David’s hand, strong and wonderful, and when he moves Diarmuid yelps, pleasure rippling up his back as David’s hand drags along his length. David smiles against his neck, thumb moving up to rub back and forth against the slit, sliding the moisture gathering there around and Diarmuid bucks into his hand, squirming for more. David’s free hand moves up to the thin lace strap over his shoulder and he presses it aside, placing a careful kiss against his collarbone.

“Do you have any oil,” David asks against his shoulder, and it takes a moment for Diarmuid to process the words.

When he does, red blush flames across his face but he nods, hand reaching out for the bedside table. David makes quick work of pulling open the drawer and finding the small jar of olive oil. He quirks an eyebrow at Diarmuid and Diarmuid fumbles:

“It’s for my hair, okay—“

David gives a disbelieving “mhmm,” and dumps a pool of oil in his hand before sliding his hand back up under Diarumuid’s underwear.

_Oh._

It’s so much better— the slick easing the way and Diarmuid grips David’s broad shoulders hard. David’s free hand slides up the back of Diarmuid’s other leg, pushing the lace up and gripping his bottom, squeezing hard.

David’s oiled hand starts squeezing and pulling his erection with obscene slick sounds, and Diarmuid knows this will be over much too soon, but David is driving him mad—

“Come on, sweetheart,” David whispers into his ear and he is lost, spilling into his combinations with David’s hand rubbing into that spot below the head.

David continues to pull him through it until Diarmuid is squirming with oversensitivity. As Diarmuid floats on a cloud of bliss, he becomes aware of David’s predicament. David’s shifting, trying to stay still so as not to disturb Diarmuid, but he can feel the heat between David’s thighs pressing into his shin.

He remembers something he heard some lady friends talking about when he as younger, and at the time the thought had horrified him, but now…

He shifts, pushing at David’s shoulders. David pulls back, eyes going worried, but Diarmuid kisses the concern away and just pushes him around until David is sitting at the edge of the mattress with his feet planted on the carpeted floor. Diarmuid feels his heart start to pound hard again with anxiety, but he stands in front of David and reaches for his belt, firmly ignoring how his fingers tremble.

David watches him with deep, full eyes as Diarmuid undoes the buckle and pulls the leather away from David’s slacks. The clear arousal pressing against David’s pants gives Diarmuid the confidence he needs to kneel between David’s legs, pausing as he reaches for David’s pants.

Now he’s the one to ask if David is okay, and David’s “yes” is like gravel, making Diarmuid spent member twitch with residual arousal. He quickly pulls the fastenings apart and tugs until David gives in and helps, pulling himself out of his pants. Diarmuid sucks in a breath— he’s big, but not overwhelming, and God, the smell of him is wonderful. He’s never seen another man aroused before, let alone been this close to another man’s arousal, but it’s…thrilling.

Diarmuid feels naïve as he reaches out and takes David’s erection in his hand, giving him a few experiemental pulls to feel the weight of him and get used to the idea before leaning forward and pressing his lips carefully to the head.

David growls again, hands fisting so hard in the blankets that Diarmuid hears the fabric creak in protest. Diarmuid tentatively presses his tongue to the slit, and while the taste isn’t pleasant, it’s not terrible, and David’s reaction is wonderful. His eyes roll back and he huffs out a breath with a whispered “please…”

Diarmuid suddenly understands the appeal of this act, and he smiles and fits the head into his mouth and carefully, slowly sucks.

David’s response is immediate—breathe huffing out and his breathing picks up. Diarmuid experiments with different touches, loving the responses he can illicit. He pressing kisses to the fat vein along the side, swirling his tongue along the weeping slit, and when he sucks the head into his mouth and moans, the vibrations make David keen and twitch.

“Diarmuid,” David grates after much teasing, chest heaving and sweating. Diarmuid gives in remembering what the ladies had said and sucks the head while jacking what he cannot fit in his mouth, the way eased by spit and slick.

David moans low and loud, hips twitching and shifting, until he calls Diarmuid’s name again, a warning, and Diarmuid pulls away as David spills— heat landing across his cheek and down his neck. It’s the most erotic sight he has ever witnessed: David’s bliss is a drug, and Diarmuid never wants it to stop.

When David finishes, Diarmuid feels sudden embarrassment flush his skin as David’s release slides down his skin. He must look a complete mess— combinations ruined, strap stretched beyond repair and sliding off his shoulder, oil and semen soaking the front—

But when David looks down at him, his eyes fill with flames again and he tugs at Diarmuid until they’re both lying on the bed.

David kisses him, licking up his own spend from Diarmuid’s skin, and Diarmuid spares a moment to think that that should not be as erotic as it is…but his embarrassment disappears with the besotted look on David’s face, and he knows he must look the same.

“I’m glad you came back,” Diarmuid says and David laughs, gathering Diarmuid in his arms.

They float together, safe and happy, scents mingling in the sheets.

When David does leave, it’s with great reluctance. But Diarmuid insists (Raymond has a key, he could come in at any moment—) and they exchange more soft, happy kisses before David disappears out the door and down the hallway, hair ruffled from obvious passion and shirt twisted and rumpled. For the first time since this trip began Diarmuid is looking forward to what the next day will bring.


	4. shattered china and condensation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raymond doesn't approve of Diarmuid's late night activities, Geraldus reminds Diarmuid of his responsibilites, and David shows him a possible future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst in this chapter, lads.

Diarmuid wakes the next morning with an unfamiliar thrill in his chest. The memory of last night is a treasure he cradles in his heart as he gets dressed for the day.

He will have to join Raymond for breakfast on the private promenade attached to Raymond’s suite, but after that he will find a way to disappear and meet up with David. The thought keeps him cheerful as he hurries across the hallway, but reality crushes his happy daydreaming when he walks out onto the promenade and Raymond doesn’t look up from his book to greet him.

His heart starts pounding for a different reason, and he sits silently across the table from his fiancé.

It’s too quiet for a long time, and Diarmuid is ready to stand up and leave when Raymond finally speaks.

“I’ve heard about your adventure down in Third Class last night,” Raymond says, not looking up from the book in front of him. Diarmuid’s heart stalls.

“I—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Raymond interrupts, voice heard in the morning air, “whatever your reason is for such appalling behavior, it doesn’t matter to me.”

Diarmuid stares down at his plate, vision tunneling.

_Does he know about David? Oh God, what—_

“I’m sorry—“

“I don’t care that you’re sorry,” Raymond interrupts, finally looking up, and the cold fury in his eyes makes Diarmuid go cold.

“You are my fiancé” Raymond’s voice climbs to a yell.

“Raymond—“ Diarmuid whispers, and Raymond stands so abruptly that the chair squeals against the wood deck and Diarmuid flinches.

“That makes you my husband, and you _will_ obey me,” he yells, eyes lit with fire.

“Raymond—“ Diarmuid tries again, voice dissolving in fear.

The table settings go flying with the sweep of Raymond’s arm— expensive new china shatters across the promenade floor, glass cracks and splinters, and Diarmuid shoves his chair away from the table, animal instinct shrieking at him to run—

Raymond is suddenly looming and huge in front of him— hand gripping Diarmuid’s jaw hard enough to make Diarmuid let out a shocked whimper.

“You will not behave like that again, do you understand?”

Heart thundering in his ears, Diarmuid can only stare in shock. Raymond’s hand clamps down harder, fingers digging into his skin.

“Do you understand,” he growls, lips pulled back in a snarl.

Diamuid nods the best he can, hands clenched like claws to the arms of the chair.

“Good boy,” Raymond says, fingers gentling to pet along his jaw. The cold fury leaves his eyes and he sighs, blue eyes turning disappointed.

“Look at you, shaking like a leaf. I don’t want to treat you like this, but when you—“ he stops, shaking his head. Barbs of shame curl into Diarmuid’s chest and he dare not move, lest he incites more wrath.

“Why don’t you take a walk along the deck, get some fresh air? I need some time away from you to sort this out. Later, I’ll take you dancing. How does that sound, darling?”

Diarmuid can’t breathe.

“Where are your manners? Say ‘yes, please.’’

Diarmuid swallows, forcing his throat to relax, and manages a whisper.

“Yes, please.”

It falls like stone from his numb lips, but Raymond nods and smiles. It’s horrible and fake, now that Diarmuid has seen behind Raymond’s person suit to what lies beneath, and Diarmuid’s future arches out before him— he’s stuck with this charming monster.

Raymond stands and moves away from Diarmuid, smoothing his hair back from where it’s fallen forward in his wrath. He straightens his tie and puts on his jacket before disappearing through his suite and out into the hallway as though nothing has happened.

Diarmuid can’t feel anything for a moment, but then terror suddenly crashes down on him and he starts shaking.

The maid appears in his periphery, and her pale face is far too sympathetic. Diarmuid blinks, vision blurring as he falls to his knees, reaching to try and clean up some of the shattered china.

“I’m sorry, there was— an accident—,” he says, wanting to hide it all, the shame in him bursting into an overwhelming tidal wave.

The maid kneels near him and starts collecting the shattered glass.

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and her hand touches the back of his, softly.

“It’s okay.”

\---

Diarmuid hides away for the majority of the day in the First Class library, disappearing into the lives of made up characters, pretending to be anyone other than himself.

\---

As Diarmuid prepares for the evening he finds his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt. He puts too much pomade in his hair, trying to slick it down so that Raymond will be pleased. Staring into the vanity mirror, he hates himself passionately, wishing he could be stronger, like David.

Shame burns in his guts, and he remembers the previous evening, how David had smiled at him and twisted his fingers around Diarmuid’s wild hair, and called him beautiful.

A pained breath shocks out of him from the memory and he clamps down on his emotions.

A knock on the door interrupts Diarmuid’s horrible thoughts and he opens it to find Geraldus waiting. He assesses Diarmuid with icy eyes, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Unable to take more criticism for the day, Diarmuid walks back over to the vanity to grab his bowtie.

“Well, I suppose you’ll do for the evening,” Geraldus drawls. Diarmuid clears his throat and his fingers fumble with the bowtie.

Geraldus watches him from the doorway, then tuts and walks over to him, hand out for the bowtie.

Diarmuid’s pulse pounds, a chill going up his spine at having Geraldus’ fingers that close to the vulnerable curve of his neck.

“Have you telegraphed your father yet,” Geraldus asks.

Diarmuid clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

“He would be disappointed to hear about your behavior this trip— embarrassing yourself like you did last night.”

The tie twists around his neck.

“I didn’t think I’d have to remind you, but clearly I do: that kind of behavior also reflects on your fiancé, and by extension your father.”

Diarmuid’s heart twists at the thought of his father being disappointed in him.

“Your father is a good man, but he needs support, and you will provide that support by marrying Raymond,”

The fabric tenses against his throat.

“You don’t want to disappoint Raymond too much. He has many options, and if Raymond decides you’re not worth the trouble,” Geraldus tugs at the twisted loops against his neck, tightening the noose, “then what would you and your father do?”

\---

The entire evening is agony. Dinner is tense and full of false laughter. Dancing with Raymond is even worse: Raymond is huge and stiff, hands like steel against Diarmuid’s back and a manacle at his wrist. He still feels the imprint of Raymond’s touch against him hours later as he sneaks out of his room.

It’s a struggle to remember where David’s room is—he gets turned around several times in the confusing maze of Third Class and wracks his brain to remember David’s room number. He’s about to give up and go cry in his room like the pathetic mess he is, when—

“Oh hello! Come back for more, have you?”

Diarmuid flinches at the voice, but when he turns around he sees one of David’s roommates smiling at him. Diarmuid must have a terrible look on his face because the man’s smile evaporates and his brow furrows.

“Did you want—? I can lead you to David, if you’d like?”

Diarmuid nods and barely manages a strangled “please.”

It’s silent, and when they arrive the man knocks to get David’s attention then disappears down the hall without waiting for a response.

David jumps up from the bed when he sees Diarmuid, dropping his sketchbook to the side.

Diarmuid must look really terrible, because he stops a couple feet away and shifts on his feet.

“Busy day,” David asks, and Diarmuid clenches his jaw, running a hand through his hair.

“Can we… go somewhere,” Diarmuid asks, feeling ridiculous and lost. But he wants to be somewhere else— anywhere else, as long as it’s with David.

David’s hand reaches forward and touches his, twining their fingers together.

“I know a place,” David whispers, turning and pulling Diarmuid out of his room.

They walk through hallways, down stairs, and Diarmuid doesn’t pay any attention. The overwhelm of the day is catching up to him, and nothing matters anymore except David’s fingers tangled with his.

They end up in a giant cargo space with luggage and crates and—

“Is that a car,” Diarmuid asks, jolted out of his stupor at the sight of the glittering black metal. David laughs and tugs him forward. He opens the passenger door, helping Diarmuid into the front seat, then darts around the side and slides behind the wheel.

“Where do you want to go,” David asks, putting his arm up behind Diarmuid.

A laugh bursts out of Diarmuid and he scoots closer, under David’s arm. Leaning against his strong chest, Diarmuid revels in the safe scent of him, the softness of his touch, the rumble of his voice. It wipes away the sour feeling of Raymond’s hands with such ease that Diarmuid feels a thrill of fear run through him.

Diarmuid could imagine a future like this— David driving them through some unknown town with Diarmuid in the passenger seat. The impossibility of it aches in him and he starts to pull away.

“Hey,” David says, hand keeping him close, “come on, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Diarmuid sucks in a sharp breath, tears flooding his eyes, all the terror he’s been feeling building under his skin for the past 6 months expands in his chest and an embarrassing sob tears out of his throat.

“I don’t want to marry Raymond,” he confesses through his tears.

“I know it’s childish,” Diarmuid says, voice high with distress, “but he’s not who everyone thinks he is, and I can’t stand the thought of being his husband—”

David runs a broad hand along his back, soothing, accepting.

“I don’t like it when he touches me,” Diarmuid whines, feeling David’s arm tense around his shoulders.

“What happened,” David asks, voice flat.

“He found out that I went dancing last night,” Diarmuid manages, “but I don’t think he knows about you. He…was angry this morning.”

David waits for him to continue, hand continuing it’s soft, gently rhythm against his spine.

“He yelled and— well, the Titanic has lost some nice new china to his anger,” Diarmuid tries to laugh, but it just sounds hollow and choked.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He just yelled and….” Diarmuid rubbed his jaw without thinking, but David tracks the movement and his soft, gentle eyes go dark.

“Tell me,” he requests.

“He just grabbed me,” Diarmuid says in a rush, “said things that were…unpleasant.”

David’s jaw clenches hard, and Dairmuid continues quickly, lest he loses his courage.

“But I _have_ to marry him. It’s all been arranged, and if I don’t— Well, see, my dad, he’s in America and he’s not doing so well, and we need the support—“

“What would your father say to you? If he were aware of how Raymond is treating you?”

Diarmuid could see it clear as day in his mind’s eye: his father would be outraged. But Diarmuid has to take care of him—

“He would be horrified,” Diarmuid admits.

“And what do you want?”

_What does he want?_ He wants to be here, in this car, with David. He wants to introduce David to his father. His father would _love_ David.

The impossible potential opens up before him: David driving Diarmuid and his father to the beach, where they can have cucumber sandwiches and lemonade like they used too. They could go swimming in the waves, and Diarmuid would try and fail to dunk David under the waves. David would hoist Diarmuid up to sit on his shoulders, and father would chastise them for not wearing enough sun protection.

Diarmuid looks up at David and studies him. He’s nothing like Raymond. David is kind and warm, he’s gentle despite his height and strength. He will accept anything Diarmuid says to him in this moment.

Diarmuid takes the leap.

“I want to be here, with you. I want to introduce you to my father. I want you to drive me to the beaches in America—“

David kisses him, pulling him close and devouring his words.

“I want that too,” David murmurs against him, “more than anything.”

Diarmuid feels a groan tear out of him, overwhelmed, drowning with the realization of what he’s feeling— what he dare not admit to himself.

David maneuvers Diarmuid so he’s braced against the corner of the seat and slides across the new, shiny leather to kneel in the footwell.

“Can I,” David pauses, eyes darting around in sudden concern.

“Anything,” Diarmuid agrees, and David grips behind Diarmuid’s knees, fingers sliding against his slacks to pull his knees apart. Diarmuid’s chest leaps in simultaneous arousal and embarrassment at the vulnerable position.

David pushes close, his broad shoulders holding Diarmuid’s knees apart, and he reaches up to undo Diarmuid’s belt and pull at his slacks. Diarmuid feels flush light up his cheeks at having David so close to his pelvis, and when David pulls him out of his pants and stares at him, Diarmuid squirms at being so observed.

But David just looks up at him for confirmation before reaching out and gripping him, touch feather light, watching him grow to full hardness under his ministrations.

It would be mortifying, but David looks enthralled— pressing his fingers along Diarmuid’s length, rubbing his pointer finger along the slit until liquid beads at the tip. Diarmuid struggles to keep his hips still, but it’s so intensely arousing to watch David touch him like this.

“David,” he whispers when it becomes too much. David glances up at him with a hesitant look, before taking him in his hand and leaning down, pressing his open lips against the head of Diarmuid’s erection. The hot, wet warmth is shocking and so, so good—

“Oh,” Diarmuid gasps, hands going to David’s shoulders for stability.

David looks up at him again, dark eyes waiting for consent, and Diarmuid nods rapidly, feeling sweat start to drip down his back.

David’s concern melts away and he leans down, alternating between pressing his lips and his tongue along Diarmuid’s length, teasing. It’s agony. Diarmuid’s whine is cut off as David suddenly pulls him into his mouth.

He flails a hand out for purchase and slips in the thick condensation that’s gathered along the glass window. He gasps, hips jerking and he feels David’s throat squeeze around his length, and it feels _so good—_ the tight, wet contraction, but—

“Sorry—“ Diarmuid gasps, gripped the leather backrest with one hand and ghosting along the nape of David’s neck with the other, “sorry, sorry—“

But David grips his hip, mouth still around him, and looks up at him with shiny eyes, pulling his hip to encourage him.

Diarmuid takes a slow breath and carefully, slowly shifts his hips to see if he’s understanding David correctly.

David moans, loud, and Diarmuid chokes on air. He keeps his hand against David’s neck— just to feel him— and pets, soothing along the tense muscle.

David suddenly fumbles with is own pants, hand jerking in a familiar motion as he continues to suck at Diarmuid’s erection. The image of David jerking himself off with Diarmuid’s dick down his throat is too much and Diarmuid moans, back arching.

David groans around him, encouraging, and Diarmuid jerks his hips, feeling David’s throat contract again. Diarmuid looks down and sees moisture glittering along David’s dark lashes and he flinches, starting to pull away.

David glares at him, expression clear: _Don’t you dare stop._

So Diarmuid does it again, and again, and David moans and gags on him, hand jerking frantically in his own pants, and Diarmuid can’t take it— reaching down to tug at David’s thick curls, trying to warn him. David ignores him, sucking harder, hips shifting as he tugs at himself, and Diarmuid spills down his throat with a shocked yell.

David chokes, semen spilling down his lips and he stills, clearly spilling in his own pants. Diarmuid’s chest shivers, overwhelmed, shocked, and he feels again the intense swell of emotion he refuses to name.

Through the sex damp air he looks down at David, kneeling between his legs. David looks broken open, eyes wide and vulnerable, glittering with tears as he stares up at Diarmuid, and Diarmuid cannot stand it a moment longer.

“Come here,” Diarmuid demands, pulling at this shoulders until he can kiss along David’s face, pressing his lips along David’s brow, down his crooked nose, against his hot, swollen lips. David hides his face in Diarmuid’s neck and breathes heavily against him for a while, sweat dripping down his jaw.

“Want to go back up to my room,” Diarmuid asks, laughing as David fumbles for the car’s shiny door handle.


End file.
